Tuesday, Oct. 05, 2004 - 4:15 P.M.

Have you ever met someone who was just a putz? a dick? a jerk? But they weren’t normal (in the conventional sense). Whether an actuality or not, in their opinion, life had dealt them a losing hand and they used that as an excuse to be a putz, a dick, a jerk? Well, I met someone like that once and they tried that shit and that shit did not fly.

Look, we all have our crosses to bear, okay? Yours may be that you are cixelsyd. Or, more seriously, maybe you are an amputee. Perhaps you are deaf. Or, more seriously, maybe you’re related to Britney Spears. Whatever your particular real or perceived affliction may be, it doesn’t give you carte blanche to be an asshole. I mean, if that were the case, the people who have really suffered? Like, say, anyone who was forced for some unknown reason to sit through Gigli? They’d be rampaging right now. Oh, wait. There wasn’t that many of them. Never mind. My point is some people are just foul and unpleasant, ya know? Short, tall, white, purple, big, small, shiny, matte, doesn’t matter.

I’m getting out of my car. I had parked in a handicapped space. Admittedly, I am not handicapped (in the conventional sense, you know, handicapped, per se). I had called ahead, I had paid over the phone, I had driven by the store, I had seen there was no one waiting in line, I presumed I could walk in, give my name and walk out in less than 15 seconds with my sex to…er, CD player. Also, I should point out that there were other handicapped spaces open. Right beside where I was parked. All that being said, I know I shouldn’t have parked in that space and I’m sufficiently chagrined and a lesser person for it. Still, all handicaps aren’t visible on the outside. To the naked eye. Without some tequila involved. What? I’m just saying.

“It’s people like you. That’s the reason we don’t like you.” Seriously, that’s what I hear! But I keep walking. I’m thinking to myself, I don’t know who that guy is talking to but surely it can’t be me. I’m sweet! Doggone it, people like me.

“Yeah, we don’t like ya ‘cause y’all think you own every damn thing.” What? Is he talking to me? Should I turn around? It’s dark. I’m not in the best of neighborhoods. I’m by myself. Hmm.

“I guess you ain’t even gonna pay any attention to me. Like I don’t even exist. That’s what your kind usually do.” “Your kind?” Is there an alien behind me? Slowly I turn around to find nothing. No one. In my line of vision anyway. But when I look down? A little person, a dwarf, a person of smaller stature, a vertically challenged man, a midget…I do not know what the politically correct term is, so I’m covering all my bases here. You know what? Considering his attitude, no, no I’m not, screw it. Mini-Me is harassing me. There’s no way I can convey the tone of his voice but these words describe it: insulting, disgusted, condescending, angry. And maybe, slightly slurred, as if drunk.

I considered offering him one meeeeeeeellion dollars to go the holy hell away. Then a person of normal height walked up to stand with him, so I didn’t. And normal stature guy was not Mike Myers. As a bit of background let me tell you that I certainly cannot explain it but little people and mimes freak me out. If I go to hell, my hell will be filled with little people and mimes. And Mickey Rourke.

So, instead, I said, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you. I had to park way down that aisle, ‘cause you parked your perfectly healthy ass in that handicapped space.”(I should note that he pointed to one regular parking space.)

“Really? But there are open handicapped spaces on either side of me!”

“I need the space in the middle. We have to park there.”

“Why?”

“It ain’t none of your business why. Why do you need know?”

“So instead of taking up one handicapped space, you have to take up three?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, you need to worry ‘bout the fact you ain’t got a handicap and you parked in a handicapped space!”

“What the hell is your problem? And, by the way, what the hell is your handicap? Is being a midget a handicap? Or, maybe, being an asshole? Just ‘cause you feel like you got the short end of the stick in life, it doesn’t give you the right to be a jerk.”

“You’re a fancy pantsed bitch. You gotta mouth on you too. Your husband let you talk to him like that?”

Now, this whole time, his driver? bodyguard? chaperone from the circus? was just standing around looking as if he wasn’t quite sure what he should do. Which made me wonder if him giving consideration to the reining in of the little guy was something he had to do often. Anyhow, it was all busted up when a man from the adult bookst…uh, electronics store came out and, quite cavalierly, rescued me.

He was one pissed off little dude. There’s no telling what kind of damage he could have done to my tires if he had gone on a rampage.

Sweet fancy Moses that guy was a jerk. In the conventional sense.

You Give Me Fervor - Friday, Feb. 17, 2006
Revamped Sex Camp - Thursday, Jan. 26, 2006
I'm Not Dead - Tuesday, Jan. 10, 2006
Ebert And Roeper? Watch Your Backs. - Tuesday, Nov. 29, 2005
Coffee? Tea? Map? - Monday, Nov. 07, 2005

© Purplecigar

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